In Skimming Wings and Assumptions
by frenchlavenderandhoney
Summary: A simple evening in the library and a classic story may be all Mary and Francis need to rebuild what they lost. (Occurs around 2x13 and trigger warning for sensitive topics)
1. Chapter 1

_In this one, she does not let herself believe that she loves Conde simply because of what he did for her. In this one, she is hurting yet strong. In this one, she is healing, and Francis can still be saved. In this one, Mary and Francis's love is so much more powerful than what the writers wrote in the show... (Still low-key bitter, whoops)_

 _Despite this, I do not own Reign. Nor Ovid's works._

* * *

He sees her one evening in the library. Her ladies-in-waiting sit across from each other in front of the library's door, a game of chess settled on the table between them. Mary's fear of the king's guards failing their jobs again dictate her decision to no longer trust men. Instead, she opts for the strongest women from nearby villages who need an escape from their lives. She offers them positions as her ladies, which benefit both parties. It is a strong move. While Mary would never admit it, she is building her own network of spies like Catherine has.

Francis would be lying if he said that her recovery does not impress him. It has been months since her rape happened. While it pains him to watch her from a distance, he respects that she needs time and space. She claims they are husband and wife in name only, but he remains in denial. He loves her from afar and proves a strong king for her sake.

Just because he is a strong king does not mean he is emotionally stable, though. On random nights, the king can be seen pressing his ear against her chamber doors, listening carefully for the sound of her breathing. Francis does not leave until he is sure she is safe. He loves her from afar, be it apparent or not.

If she does notice, she does not show it. When the rape first happened, her body trembled in his presence. Her once steady and sure hands shook and twitched at just the slightest rough intonation in his words. She had to refrain from several council meetings the first few weeks. The presence of men made her so scared, her fear was often palpable. Now, months after her rape, Mary's eyes fly to his shoes when he passes her in the hallways. She never stops to stare, but he feels her longing. They remain in denial of it, but he clings onto these hopes unconsciously, trusting that their love will tug them back into each other eventually.

That is where they stand with each other in that moment. Francis peeks at the distant queen inside the library, her side profile alight by the surrounding candles. She curls up in the window seat as if the moon aid her in seeing the pages. Francis watches as the ghost of a smile graces her features, and he feels one tug on his lips as well. One of Mary's ladies clears her throat, causing his smile to fall just as fast as it came.

"Your majesty," Angeline, a reformed crook and survivor of rape herself, greets him, curtsying. "I understand it is not my place to say, but I have watched her heal. Maybe it is time you reach out and show her support."

Francis' gaze falls back on the queen reading in the windowsill. "I do not believe she wants my support. Just my distance."

Angeline pouts a bit, a scowl of frustration beginning to spill on her face. Mary trained the lady quick and well though, and it starts to dissipate from her features. "Sometimes a lady may not say it outright, but we do enjoy when a man is simply there to lend an ear. We may not always ask for what we truly want."

Francis laughs bitterly, assuming he knows more. Maybe he does. He is so in sync and in tune with her, even with Mary's distant state. He knows where she likes to go. He knows she goes to the lake on cloudy days as a safe haven from the demands of court. He knows when she especially wants to avoid him. He takes special measures to appeal to her wishes on days such as that. After all, he would do anything for her comfort.

But he also is not there to watch the growth of a new side of her. So, does he really know the queen that sat reading books in the library? Had she adopted new traits and habits? Francis mentally curses himself. He has been so absorbed with giving her space and not wanting to miss out on his own son's growth that he missed his wife's.

The elder lady Anne huffs at his contemplative stance, her patience wearing thin. "Oh, good lord, your grace," she hisses, "You simply handled this situation all wrong."

He shoots a glare at the old woman. "I suggest you watch your tongue, Madame."

Her eyes narrow at him, her hands akimbo. "And I suggest you get on moving. You're too concerned with her verbal wishes that you do not see the questions in her eyes. Mary may have improved her relationship with herself, but my dear queen still feels alone. You're simply no help."

"And what do you suggest I do?"

"I suggest you walk yourself across from her and listen. Reach out to her, you dull coin. Do nothing but listen."

Francis's mouth falls at the audacity of the woman, but he lets his question slip. She may be cruel, but she gives good advice. "What is there to say if she won't talk?"

"Maybe you're asking all the wrong questions!" she huffs again, her chest rising and falling greatly. "When a child wants to join in a game, do they not have a better chance of participating if they approach the others and ask?"

Her outburst is loud, causing several bystanders to freeze and look at the red-faced lady. Her nostrils flare, but her rage is not what causes feelings of dread to enter him. It is Mary that makes his stomach drop, her eyes gazing at the scene outside the library.

Francis glances at Anne, the question on whether he should enter on his face. The old woman swings open the library doors further. She announces him impatiently and storms away, continuing her game of chess with Angeline. Mary sits at the edge of her seat as Francis enters the library, his hands fiddling with his fingers. He has never been as ill prepared as that moment.

He looks at Mary whose gaze won't meet his. Her eyes settle on the patterns on the ceiling, the gold designs seeming to keep her interest more than his sudden presence. She's breathtaking in that moment. Francis wants to reach out and touch the long lashes that frame her beautiful brown eyes. The candles flicker, casting small shadows on her face and making her features stand out all the more. Her plump lips are set in a pout as she examines the ceiling, and Francis knows that she is not wondering why the ceiling has golden fixtures.

Francis is ready to ask her why she won't look at him when Anne's words echo in his mind. Instead of confronting their problems head on, he settles for a bit of small talk. He spots the copy of Ovid in her hands, and he cannot help the words that fall from his mouth. "I do hope you've read _Metamorphoses_."

Mary glances down at him before directing her gaze back at the ceiling. She fiddles with the book in her hands, her fingers once again jittery. Francis feels the urge to reach out and hold them still, begging her not to be afraid. He will protect her, not cause her harm. Instead, he walks around the room, feigning to peruse the shelves. He continues, hoping to get her to think of something else. Not to forget exactly, but remind her that she is not defined by a single moment in her life, though it may seem that way.

"It's where the story of ill-fated Icarus can be found, but Icarus is one of my least favorite stories. My opinions are irrelevant of course, but I think both parties involved are quite stupid."

He hears the faintest bit of laughter come from her direction, and he turns around at her with excitement etched in his features. She looks at him longer this time. Her fiddling stops, and her nerves seem to fall at ease with the distance he has placed between them.

"I quite like Icarus," she says strongly, and it almost shocks him. When was the last time he heard her voice? He craves for more, feeling deprived after having a small taste.

"Why is that?" Francis asks, his back resting lightly against the oak shelves. He does not want to stop hearing her speak.

"I think it's a beautifully tragic story," she comments, her gaze jumping from ladder to ladder, never focusing on him.

"I respect your decision fully," Francis says, his smile apparent in his words. He wants to expand on that, tell her that he respects every decision she makes. He would follow her into the fires of hell if she decided to travel there.

Not wanting to let silence settle over them and end the conversation, Francis tries to find another aspect of the conversation he can approach. "While I do respect your decision, I suppose I always thought there was a way to avoid this conflict. Each party could have done something different."

Mary scoffs, and he swears that she rolls her eyes the slightest bit. He looks at her questioningly, and she begins to get flustered. Her eyes focus on him, a challenge set firmly in her gaze. Her lips press into a thin line, and her ears twitch. A shiver makes its way down his back, and he tries to hide it as best as he can. It had been a while since he experienced her powerful gaze firsthand.

"True, they are both at fault," Mary says, watching as he begins to make his way around the room. "But one thing they both share is a lack of communication, and I believe that is a powerful message."

"So, you enjoy the messages of the story over the story itself?" Francis asks.

Mary nods. "Reading it is a pleasure, do not mistake me. I also agree that there were so many ways for them to avoid the ending they both received, but seeing their faults is like seeing ours from a different point of view."

"And what are their faults?" Francis asks, enjoying how natural their conversation flows. She seems willing to talk to him about this, a topic that isn't matters of state nor their current relationship.

"Well," Mary begins, shifting down from her seat on the window sill to a love seat in the corner. "There is the lack of communication of course, but there is also the boy's sense of the moment. He was living inside of it too much, and I guess he was not able to realize the dangers and repercussions. He also did not heed his father's warnings. Daedalus had one simple request: fly a straight course. I suppose the boy could not wait, too excited and eager."

Francis makes his way around the room, walking over to where she is. He keeps his distance, running his hands along the leather-bound books. She watches his movements, the way his hands deftly tug at the silk bookmarks hanging from their spines. His fingers trace the large cracks of the leather, following them down until they made their way to the next book. The sound of his boots tapping along the marble floor and the sound of the fire bring her unusually at peace. What sounds like the beginning of her nightmares comes across as the sound of a faithful watchdog. She is safe and warm, under his protection, his watchful gaze that for once does not judge. His eyes no longer beg for her to speak to him, to tell him how she is doing. He is alone as she, simply finding comfort in someone who is available in that moment.

"And what of his father?" he asks her, now only a few feet away. She unconsciously leans forward. His voice is so soft, like the distance between them does not exist. It is like he is resting his forehead against hers again, whispering because of their close proximity. In a way, it is just that. She realizes she has not let him stand so close in quite some time.

"Daedalus. He was foolish for believing his young son would even listen to him. Of course, the young boy would try flying to the sun or skimming his wings across the water. He had been given a taste of freedom and adventure, and Daedalus tried to block that. The father must realize that he is a boy who does not understand the new boundaries," Mary falters in the end, her eyes blinking rapidly. She tears her gaze away from the young king who rests his arm on a shelf. "Things would be different, and it would take the boy a while to realize that things were no longer simple nor safe. The father should have explained that it would take a few challenges to reach their destination, but they would live freely together if Icarus just waited and heeded his father."

A contemplative silence falls over the two as they each register what she has said. Neither admits it aloud, but it sounds more like the situation the pair finds themselves in than the story of Icarus. What is more shocking to her is that she is not disturbed thinking like that, thinking in riddles and metaphors. She finds it comforting and eye-opening. Mary purses her lips, her realization that Francis must feel deprived of her love but also that he does not really understand. It is not fully his fault, either. She is to blame, shutting him out before he can get a full explanation of what it exactly is she wants from him.

"How would you have wanted their story to go?" His voice startles her from her reverie, and she turns to look at him, afraid that they share the same thoughts. Instead, he looks out the window, his jaw clenched and brows drawn together in thought. His finger draws patterns along the oak shelf, causing her to shiver. His hands had a therapeutic effect on her. A simple touch from him used to make her unfurl and relax.

"I- Ah," she stutters, her eyes following his finger's circular motions. He glances at her sudden speechlessness, and their eyes meet for the briefest of seconds. She sees his sadness, and he sees her loneliness. Each sight is too pitiful for the other, and they look in opposite directions, the tension that dissipated earlier that evening making its way back to them.

Mary grasps at the remains of their conversation, trying to find a response. She does not want him to leave just yet. She wants to talk in this confusing way of theirs. She wants to know what he thought without really knowing. She wants to understand at least one thing in the world she lives in.

"I would want them to begin somewhere," she says quickly, her breathing suddenly labored. Mary clamps her mouth as if it would take her words back and she could begin again. "I would want Daedalus and Icarus to speak more carefully, listen to what the other wants and what the other would give."

She sees Francis face her in the corner of her eye, his arms fastening behind his back and raising his head higher. His position reminds her just how much of a show Francis puts on around everyone. She knows he is hurting, and guilt settles in her stomach when she remembers she is the cause.

In order for her to heal, maybe she needs to be there for the one person she loves the most. Maybe to gain true love, she needs to show it too. Maybe they could be each other's crutch. It offers both of them clarity. Keeping to herself simply was no longer an option, she decides.

"They can always have a new beginning," Francis says, his voice barely above a whisper. "I'm sure Icarus would be willing to listen and learn."

"I don't doubt it," Mary says, her eyes trailing up from where his toes point at her. She lets her gaze climb up his long legs and lean torso. Mary does not tear her eyes away when their eyes finally meet, the cold exterior she had built up melting under his warm gaze.

Francis's lips lift the slightest bit, his eyes softening in joy at the mutual understanding that passes between them. It is he that tears his gaze away this time. He begins his trek towards the door, the slightest evidence of a bounce in his step. Mary does not notice the muscles on her face pulling upward, the corners of her lips mimicking his.

Before he leaves, Francis bows before his queen. "I suppose Icarus and Daedalus have quite a bit to talk about before healing happens," he says, patience settling in his eyes along with something else. That something...

"Yes," she mutters, the sound barely coming out of her throat as he exits the library. That something in his eyes... It has made her breathless, and she fingers the first page of the book in her hands.

Understanding happens between two people when they both know where they stand with each other, Mary decides. She also decides that understanding is pointless if there was no hope. It is clear in that moment that hope is that something. Hope is what she sees in his eyes, and she can feel it in her chest.

* * *

 **A/N:** Hiya :) This is my first Reign fanfic, and I hope it didn't butcher it too much? Haha.

I just love the show so much, and lately I haven't seen a lot of updates or new fanfics. I decided to write one myself, as is evident. I know that the show has lost a lot of its sparkle and popularity, but I just miss season-one!Frary so much. I really hate the distance in season two, and I took it into my own hands. (I'm not even going to talk about the "distance" in season 3.)

I hope the one-shot isn't too bad. I'm a little rusty with writing, but maybe I can get back into the swing of it all. :) So if you do end up reading this, please leave a review? Drop a fave? Drop a follow? Tell me what you think, please?

Okay, have a lovely day! - frenchlavender&honey


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

* * *

After the events that transpired the previous night, Francis poked his head in the library several times in hopes of even a glimpse of Mary. Even when his destination is at the other side of the castle, he choses routes involving the library. News spread quickly about the King's supposedly good mood, an occurrence that rarely happens as of late. It does not take too long for Mary herself to catch wind of the gossip as she prepares for her lunch.

* * *

Mary fixes the small necklace she wears, her eyes trained on where the bruises from the men used to be. Her fingers touch the areas, almost feeling their hands on her once again constricting her airway as they defiled her and removed her dignity. She focuses on the image of her in the mirror, convincing herself that those men are no longer in her life… or alive for that matter. The sliver of memory of their hands gripping her throat makes her dizzy, and she clutches her vanity in an attempt to steady herself.

She needs a distraction.

Mary sees her ladies in the reflection of her room, and she watches as they prepare a cloth for her to freshen up. From the corner of Mary's chambers, she hears Lina- Mary's pet name for Angeline- chuckle, "The King has supposedly passed the library almost twenty times today."

Ah, there it is, her distraction.

"God bless," Anne whispers, "It took quite an effort to make the King enter the library, but he listened. I'm proud he's finally hopeful about the future."

A silence settles between the pair, and only the sound of the cloth squelching with water fills the room. Mary's heart clenches. She wishes for them to say more. She wants to hear proof of the hope she saw in his eyes the previous night. It brings joy to her heart to see him searching for her quietly unlike the initial blatant displays of affection after the incident happened. He finally follows her wishes, and he keeps his distance. Despite this, Francis' love for her still finds ways to be shown. How giddy her stomach feels, and it certainly was not for the upcoming meal.

The ladies strike up their conversation again, so quiet that Mary has to strain her ears to hear them. "I hope they get to it soon. It's been quite long enough, and it's pitiful to see our Queen all alone," Anne says, her maternal side making an appearance.

They speak quietly, and Mary strains to hear them. The sound of the water falling from every twist of fabric makes her task difficult, and she shuts her eyes tightly to hear more.

"She's ought to warm up to him soon enough," Lina replies. "The love between them is so palpable that even all those thick books and walls couldn't keep us from feeling it outside."

"Do you believe it's enough to spare them from further destruction by the nobles?"

Mary's face falls. She is not aware that her ladies believe that the nobles tore their reign apart.

"Well at least we haven't gone to war. I heard Mary was without Francis during the plague, and she handled the situation quite alright. Of course, to begin with it looked like we would starve before the plague was through, but Mary found a way to get us food," Lina reassures.

"Lina, working separately may look alright to the rest of the country, but they can't see what we here at court can."

The sloshing of the water stops, and Mary pictures Lina whipping her head up with a knowing expression. "I know, Anne, but there's nothing we can do about the quality of their reign. They're torn. The nobles are driving their reign to the ground, taking advantage of a caring husband and a broken wife."

While Anne hums in agreement, Mary stands, shocked. Every muscle in her body freezes, feeling helpless and empty. The ladies she took in and cared for think her a weak ruler, played by the nobles for their own liking. Despite their daily reassurances that she is a strong person, they speak behind her back of how her current condition is affecting her rule. They think her and Francis frail, a broken machine that serves little, each operating on their own. Mary understands now she has little control of the plays of court. Without Francis, her suggestions and directions are not taken seriously. She is reminded that she is a woman, a woman viewed as emotionally unstable.

Her throat tightens, and she feels helpless. The intruders' hands press against her, and the room is far too warm for her liking. The ghost weight of a body on top of hers makes her head thrum with fear, and she is paralyzed. She holds no control of her body or even her reign. She is merely a figurehead for everyone, nothing more.

"Your grace!" Anne shrieks, pressing the cool towel against Mary's forehead. Mary's eyes shoot open, and she comes face to face with a concerned Anne and Lina. Her legs are liquid, and the ladies in waiting have to hold her up. Mary's breathes erratically, her mouth a small 'o' gasping for air. The older ladies keep dabbing the towel against her forehead, tutting at her poor physical condition.

Mary knows she is weak, and a small twist of her gut pulls her towards the library. She needs to talk to Francis. She needs to get away.

* * *

Mary's nerves stack up as she approaches the partly open door of the library. She twists the ring on her finger, sucking in her cheeks, but the words fly out before she can stop herself. "Wait here with the chest set. I want to check on something inside." She pretends not to see Lina's smile as she leaves the pair and enters the library.

Francis is already inside, his nose stuck in a book, leaning casually against the windowsill she had been sitting on the previous night. She pushes down the laughter, a giddy giggle, bubbling in her throat. She rarely seems to have that type of energy anymore, that spark they first felt when they pretended that their feelings did not exist. They were young then, and full of hope. He used to bow, pretending to be shocked to see her all alone in random hallways, and she would smile with her eyes wide in feigned surprise. Now it is hidden glances and fruitless searching.

She walks towards him, slowly, taking extra precautions to ensure her heels aren't echoing on the stone floors. "It seems you have the maids in quite a frenzy with your periodic library visits."

Francis jumps at hearing her voice, and his head whips up to greet her. He bows, and the action pleases her. It reassures her status as a queen. "I was hoping we could talk again," Francis says simply, shutting the book he holds.

Mary swallows the lump forming in her throat, wondering if these would become nightly visits. She is uncertain about the way their time together will play out. Of course, she wants to rebuild her relationship, but fear still eats at her. Mary is afraid that his patience will wear thin. She's afraid that he'll realize this new version of her is not worth his attention. These exchanges are a gamble she's not sure she is willing to take. Still, she already made a decision to walk into the library. She's here, and she will let the events run their course.

Francis takes one large step in her direction and presents a novel. The cover is cloth and the book itself is thin. She runs her hands over its coarse bindings and jerks her hand away. Observing her reaction, he laughs and draws the book back to his chest. He offers her his hand, most likely to pull her down onto the window seat by him so they may read together. She shudders at the possibility, not comfortable with the proximity she would find herself in. Slow and steady she thinks, take it slow and steady.

Choosing to sit in the love seat again that evening, Mary finds herself uncomfortable compared to the night before when she found the position offered her a good view of the room. Her hands grip at the edge of the seat, turning her knuckles white. Mary pities him and hates herself for approaching him with such joy only for her to return to being quiet and reserved. A small voice in her head thanks him for being so patient.

Francis places the book down on the table in front of her before resuming his spot on the windowsill. He crosses his arms behind his back and offers her a small smile. "I wanted to go with a lighter book, something that could make us laugh. Still, what sort of educated royals would we be without entertaining the philosophy it offers?"

She picks up the book and flips through its pages, catching snippets of banter between the different characters. It is certainly different from Icarus. " _The Heptameron_?" *****

"My sister wrote it," he interjects almost excitedly, and though he settles down, pride shines from his eyes. "It's a bit rough right now, still an idea she's testing, but I think it's quite clever."

Mary smiles a bit, the joy radiating from him reflecting off on her. "Tell me about it."

Looking pensive, he runs his hand through his untamed curls. "It's a compilation of short stories really, a few containing situational irony. I suppose that some of these might be considered inappropriate for a lady, but propriety isn't something we always kept in mind between us. I believe you won't faint. You're quite strong."

She smiles at his comment. "Thank you." The affirmation of her strength makes her stomach flutter and turn. Mary's cheeks heat up in an innocent blush, and her lips curl into a grin. Francis showers her with praises for her beauty often, but when he compliments her personality, it is a different feeling. Such words demonstrate his attentiveness. It makes her proud of who she is, and it proves he values her for more than just her looks.

He glances at her before looking away questioningly. "I found it lying around my rooms really, never got to thank Margaret for—"

"No," she says simply, looking up through her lashes at him. "For calling me strong."

He looks at her finally, his head shaking in absolute astonishment. "How could I not?" he takes a few moments to pace and move around, thinking long and hard about her remark. She stares at his figure moving back and forth, her worries itching to spill out of her mouth. If she wants to build a foundation of trust, it requires transparency between them. Before she can further expand on the topic, he begins speaking again.

"Why," he says licking his lips, "I still regret the first day you came back to court, and I spoke down at you about a wife and her duties. I've learned- and been reminded several times - about how much you can handle. You'll be careful with it, thinking thoroughly as you always do. You'll have your opinions and maybe even act out with your emotions in response, but they'll always be justified."

Francis towers next to her, who still stays seated on the love seat. "If anyone were to doubt your intelligence on any topic, I'm afraid I'd have to inform them sternly otherwise. You know what you face, and you're undeniably ready to handle what you have in your grasp."

Mary looks up at him admirably. Sure, he is talking about the book in her hands, but she feels as if he heard what her ladies spoke of earlier. She enjoys the hidden messages behind his words, and she savors interpreting them. His praises renew her sense of confidence in her reign. She holds power. She has a good mind and heart. God gave her this role, and she will not doubt in his decisions. Francis dutifully reminds her of that, though unknowingly.

He takes her silence as a sign to leave and let her enjoy his present, but before he can step too far away, she reaches out for his hand. Her forefinger and middle finger cling onto his, his signet ring a cold contrast to the fire burning in their touch. A jolt of energy shoots up her arm, and her senses awaken. The simple contact causes her hand to buzz, and her heart beats with even more excitement. Mary's mind is hazy. When was the last time their skin touched?

He first looks at their adjoined fingers then her, and she manages to choke out a small thank you; for the book or for his words, she is not sure. He merely smiles, twisting around to face her once again. He brings her hand gently up to his lips, allowing her the chance to pull away, before kissing her burning skin. She closes her eyes at the familiar feeling. His warm lips linger, lighting up her soft and white skin with another long-forgotten sensation that night- a blush, beginning from the point of contact and spreading up her face. She remembers when those lips whispered words that made her heart soar and her skin burn. Their charms have not changed.

Before long, the exchange is over, and Francis is again making his way out of the library. She lowers her hands onto her lap, resting softly on the book's coarse bindings. As she watches the crackling of the fire, a small smile tugs at her lips. She attempts to cover the hand Francis kissed, which still buzzes with energy.

* * *

 _ ***Footnote***_ : Historically, _The Heptameron_ was actually published after Margaret de Valois's death, therefore it was also published after Francis' death. His sister Margaret was still a very young child during this time of Francis' reign, and even with private tutors I doubt she would be able to write such a book. I took some liberties with the possibilities of Francis reading her story. _The Heptameron_ is a frame narrative dealing with romantic and sexual matters.

 **A/N:** Hello! I've decided to post a second chapter. I'm playing with this idea a bit, and ever since the finale (I'll try not to spoil anything just in case) I've felt the strong urge to write.

Thank you to all those who reviewed, added this story to their favorites, or followed the story. The support I'm getting keeps me motivated and brightens my day. A special shout out to the guests who reviewed as I could not send them a personal message, but I hope you all know I took your reviews to heart. Another special shout out to AmazingStella who kindly offered to Beta this story and was incredibly helpful.

I don't own Reign, and I'm very sad it ended. I suppose this is my little tribute to keep it alive.

Anyways, thank you again for the support! I hope you enjoyed this chapter. - _FrenchLavenderAndHoney_


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

* * *

It is cold that day, biting cold. Frost lines the panes of the windows and blurs the already distorted images from the thick glass. The fire attempts to provide the room with some warmth, crackling ferociously as if in a battle with the surrounding atmosphere that nips at the bones and makes the dreary castle walls even more cold to both sight and touch. Fluttering against the cold wall flies a small banner of blue stitched with gold, taunting the room's occupant of the despicable circumstances weather brings to those who once looked forward to the restrictions of winter. She glares at her hands shaking in her lap - from fear or from the cold, she is not sure, but she glares.

Mary is feverish. Her night gown is soaked from the sweat seeping from her skin, and the one spot her back connects with the wooden headboard of her bed radiates with warmth. Though it is wintry, the warmth on her back is not comfortable nor welcome despite the circumstances. Three thick furs weigh down her legs and prevent movement, constraining her from her usual activities, tying down her legs from adjustment, trapping the insane heat her body produces to the point of sticky skin and restless bones, and yet she feels like a cold wintry cave. Her forehead rivals the heat of the fire, but it also matches the helpless attempts to combat the Siberian temperatures. Finally, latching onto the wintry theme is her skin itself, pale with purple bags hanging underneath her eyes. The very thought of her situation irritates her.

Two familiar knocks and a feeling of dread announce the presence of the pesky man long before the page enters her room. Mary thinks quick, settling further into her blankets to disappear from the person on the other side. The page enters the room, plain faced and bored, but Mary's wild eyes and crazy hand gestures capture his attention. As he hesitantly announces the visitor's name, she signs desperately that she is indisposed. His voice falters, and the relief floods through her veins as the impending headache seems to vanish with just the pure understanding he conveys. She tosses him a silver coin with a small smile, and he bows with slight amusement in his eyes before leaving her room.

The door closes, and her heart pounds in her chest with every movement, hyper aware of all ongoing around her. Her ears strain to listen to the exchange between her visitor and the page, and she thinks he can hear her movements through the thick oak door, almost as if he can see not just through the door itself but the page's lie too. Her visitor is barking aggressively, and Mary flinches in her bed, his pugnacity inviting reminders of the fateful night of her violation.

Mary shuffles lower into her covers, and when the conversation stutters to a small stop, she pales further. He heard her move. She is sure of it. He heard the crinkling of her sheets and her hair squeaking against the fabric as she slid down. Impatient growling breaks the silence, demanding that Mary needs to be brought her food and that her visitor needs to see her. Mary clenches her eyes, praying that the page is brave enough to deny the Prince of Blood his requests.

She thinks that maybe she's swallowing too loudly because she can hear the squelching in her head each time she does. She stops everything, fearing that all her actions will attract his attention and unleash his unwelcome doting. Despite her attempts of playing sleep, the growling and barking has stopped, and Mary fears the worst, imagining him storming in and stirring her from her relatively peaceful day. Shutting her eyes in case he does somehow find a way in, Mary hopes and hopes that she can at least fend him off with her acting.

However, the door never swings open, and her page never announces the arrival of someone. Her heart thumps, thumps, and thumps as she waits longer, but no visitor arrives. Opening her eyes slowly, she releases the breath she did not know she held and takes in the sight of her empty room. It takes some time, but her heartbeat and breathing return to a normal pace before she comfortably falls back in her pillows.

That is her thrill for the day, and she would prefer if everyone let her be. She is quite content with hiding away from court, or more specifically her visitor.

Conde.

Her head reels just thinking about how desperate he acts to get on her good side. The once comforting friend who distracted her from undesired thoughts has suddenly turned into the undesirable. He surrounds her everywhere she goes, and not metaphorically. If before he let her be free, now his very presence traps her, not to mention that she can see through the whole act and recognize his motives.

It disgusts her, and she pulls back the covers to refresh her view. Boredom settles on her heavily as the whole castle is concerned about contagion and is overly cautious considering the recent resurgences of the plague. Loneliness also commonly occurs due to her seclusion. Three times a day Lina and Anne come to her to deliver her meals and help her with basic hygiene, but there lies the extent of her human interaction. Her mind is left stirring, waiting to do something yet never actually doing.

Mary paces her room, bouncing on her heels impatiently. Her brain stirs, and she craves some sort of intellectual conversation, especially with all the books she has accumulated on her bedside table. The mere thought of what he does for her lifts her mood. Through her ladies, Mary obtains books to keep her entertained upon Francis' request. The gesture is small, but she sees many things through his small action. He keeps her occupied and entertained, not to mention managing the entire kingdom in her stead along with Scotland, which explained the lack of his presence.

In a turn of events, she thinks Francis spends far too much time working and away from her.

Her door opens so quietly that she almost misses it, but the intruder's footsteps echo softly against the stone floors. Her head whips around in panic, wondering how Conde managed to get through. She can see him waiting at her door, waiting to hear even the slightest of stirring noises and pouncing on the door the moment he sees her page walk away to switch his shifts.

"Oh," Mary openly sighs with relief. Her face relaxes into something akin to bliss upon seeing Francis's golden curls and soft features. "I thought you were Conde, and really, I couldn't handle him today. He's awfully tenacious."

Francis does nothing but smirk in amusement at her exclamation, watching her with just the smallest of expressions as she gets comfortable on her bed after realizing it is simply him. He is fretful in every sense of the word, hearing that Mary has been bedridden for a week already and not showed much improvement. Still, he does nothing. He promises himself to do nothing. She needs space, and he will give her what she needs, even in these times when he wants to dote on her to ensure that she is up and ferociously tearing at the people in the court again.

"Your page was walking by," he explains quietly. He has been deprived for far to long, but he fights every temptation to cradle her face in his hands and examine her features. "He asked me to watch your door while he went to get the night guard. I decided I might as well drop off a new book." He holds up a leather bound book and places it on her dresser, acting too casual for both him and her.

She settles down and sits on the edge of her bed in her white nightgown, and he cannot help but look up and be captured by how ethereal she looks. The paleness of her skin accentuates the flush of her cheeks and lips from her babbling, and the candles in the room create a sort of halo and shimmer against her skin, causing his eyes to soften and look at her forlornly, one of the few acts he reminds himself to stop. He knows he looks at her passionately, but he also knows that it irritates her. Being under a male's scrutinizing gaze after her experience is not conducive to her recovery.

Those worries flood his head as she looks up at him when met with silence, yet he realizes he has been silently adoring her. He blinks rapidly to try to break the spell and his mouth falls open to come up with an excuse, an explanation, divert the conversation, anything so that she does not slide back into the very shell he has been coaxing her out of. His stance falls, defeated and stressed. She is bound to ask him to leave, to become a recluse again. There would be repercussions- the falling apart of their relationship, their government, them. He scolds himself as his mind comes blank, and he stutters.

Then she smiles bashfully, lowering her gaze to the floor and blushing softly.

"I've been quite bored," she says, bordering on a whisper almost as if she feels ashamed to admit it.

"Oh," Francis says, blinking owlishly at her.

"Quite lonely."

"Oh?"

"Would you like to sit?" Mary offers with a kind gaze. She gestures at the couch on the far end of the room, almost recreating their library encounters. She misses them. She misses him.

He lowers his head, licking his lips to hide the smile that threatens to stretch across his face. She tempts him unknowingly, and he fears for his own actions. "I really shouldn't. I need to talk to the nobles about recalling the troops from the-"

"Please?" she almost pleads, and the sound of her voice shocks both of them. She sounds so small, so small for him, and it breaks his heart while she contemplates its meaning. Still, he obeys and begins to walk over to the couch slowly as if waiting for her to change her mind and ask him to leave. The request never comes, though, and he sits on the edge of the couch, unsure of what to do. When Francis walked in he expected she would be asleep, and he hoped to let her regain her strength. Staying never seemed like an option, and now that it is, he remains unsure of what to do and what to say.

"Is something the matter?" he asks, tilting his head like a curious young child, and it makes her grin. Francis sits before her when she needs someone, and that is more than enough for her.

"Yes," she begins, moving from her spot and closing the distance between them, stiffly sitting next to him. Their thighs barely touch, just a centimeter away, and yet it feels too distant to relieve any tension. Sparks shoot and reach, hoping to collide, but they simply cannot. She sits so close he can smell her, the smell so distinctly her, like a meadow mixing with the sea's saltiness. When she opens her mouth to speak, her voice washes over him like waves. "Read me something- or tell it. I just want to distract myself from this awful state."

Francis is eager to please. If he can provide comfort in any way, he will do so, and it just so happens comfort comes in his company, a progression that he happily embraces. Along with his company, the room swims thick with warm air, fogging up the twilight tinted windows with mist. The warmth from the fire licks their skin sensuously, but it does not unsettle Mary. She remains as relaxed as she can be considering the circumstances, alone with Francis sitting close to her. Still, the air between them buzzes, waiting to be soothed through a distraction.

He settles back into the cushion, jaw clenched and eyebrows drawn, but he blinks slowly, like a sloth, a sense of serenity settling around him. Mary waits, upright and alert, her mind twisting as she feels an odd sense of emptiness next to Francis. It is not unpleasant, but in fact welcoming, like a pendulum swing from their passionate early days to those they spent apart due to her own fear and trauma, a nice compromise between their two extreme displays.

Francis tuts briefly as he thinks before rubbing his palms on his knees. He tries to think of something other than Mary sitting next to him, intoxicating his thoughts and overwhelming his senses with her. He tries to battle the fog that clouds his mind, the haziness and slow atmosphere of the room begging him to wrap her in his arms and sleep.

But Francis has promised to refrain himself, so he does the next best thing he can think of that remains in the boundaries of their current arrangement: to do as she asks. "Esther."

Mary turns to look at him over her shoulder, her eyebrows drawn in confusion at his single-word outburst that correlated with nothing. "Did we acquire someone new in the staff?"

He chuckles at her innocent question before turning his head to look at her. He does not think as he rest his arm behind her on the back of the couch, and she does not think about him practically surrounding her. Quite the opposite, as she feels at ease, so much so that she subconsciously loosens in her posture, slowly but surely closing the distance between their two bodies.

"From the Bible," Francis says simply. She nods, knowing exactly what he talks about.

"Oh, that Esther," she replies. Mary adores the story of the Persian queen who helped save her own people by exposing the plots of the royal vizier. While she was in the convent, she would always ask the nuns to repeat the story. At one point she was determined to know the passage by heart. Esther used her position to save her people, and Mary hopes that she will do the same. "One of my favorites."

"I know," he shoots back rapidly, and she turns to him with wide eyes, an alarmed look on her face. He fears she will stand up, claiming she is tired and in need of some rest. She looks so unsettled, but then a blush creeps across her face. Mary settles further back, her back falling behind while her shoulders span the length of his outstretched arm with her hair falling over it like a blanket. Francis clears his throat, and with one nod from her, he begins his story.

"The King of Persia holds a banquet and wants to show off the beauty of his wife," Francis says, watching as Mary tucks in her legs beneath her and leans on him even more. He will let her set the pace, but he cannot help the comment that slip from his lips. "Understandably, I would want to hold a banquet for my beautiful wife, too." Mary chuckles, ducking her head shyly. Francis smiles, feeling like he is courting her again, but he decides he is already pushing his luck. Instead, he continues the story.

"She refuses to come, and the silly king gets angry. Unlike a true gentleman, he does not respect his wife's wishes and views her rejection as obstinate." Mary nods her head, agreeing quietly, but he sees it. When she realizes Francis has stopped, she jumps a bit.

"You're not like him," Mary whispers in an attempt to reassure him. "No, you're much better." He gives her a look, a smile spilling across his face. She lowers her head again before whispering for him to continue.

"Embarrassed and shocked, the king deposes Vashti and calls for a beauty pageant to find his new wife. Among the crowd assembled to participate stands Esther, a beautiful jewish girl with whom the King is absolutely smitten for, and she becomes his new queen. Now, Esther's uncle happens to hear two men plotting to kill the king, and through their connection, Esther tells her new husband of the plot, managing to save his life- one of the reasons why we kings need you queens." She laughs a little, but it is so soft that he turns his head to look at her. Her eyes are straight ahead, and her lids look heavy. Still, she looks at peace, and he proceeds to tell the story of the Esther.

He is halfway through, describing a beautiful banquet that Esther holds when Mary rests her head on his shoulder, her long lashes casting dancing shadows on her face from the light of the fire. Her lips turn up at the edges in the slightest of smiles, but it is there and makes her look unbothered. Her hair tickles his neck, the wisps of chocolate strands breathing on him like a comforting whisper while her own breathing is deep enough to tempt him to sleep. "Now Esther manages to save the Jewish people and Mordecai when she reveals everything to her husband. She knew a lot more than he gave her credit for, and she was proactive when it came to helping those who need her. That is a respectable woman, a real queen who never forgets her true self amidst the chaos. So brave, reminding me of someone we know quite well..." He ends the story with a slight flourish, and he knows she is not listening anymore, his voice drowned out by her impending sleep. Despite her slumber, Mary murmurs in agreement through the thick veil of fatigue, and Francis hopes that she dreams of her own honorable actions, spurned by the story of Esther.

He does not want to let her go, but if he has learned anything, it is that letting her breathe on her own might be their best option for improvement. Keeping this in mind, he gathers his energy and cradles her neck in one arm while using his other to lift her legs from her curled position. Carrying with some effort - he too has grown sickly from their time apart - he gently lays her in her bed before gracing a blanket over her body to keep her warm.

Mary remains out cold the entire time, with little to no movement. He watches her briefly, letting himself ingrain the image of her in his mind, peaceful and content. Overwhelmed by his love for her, he places the lightest of kisses on her hairline, almost like a bird skimming the water with its wings but never falling in for it knows the distance that provides safety.

* * *

 **A/N:** Whoops! I apologize to all those who waited a long time for this. I love Reign, really I do. I simply couldn't crank this one out throughout the entire school year and due to lack of motivation. I recently got a burst of inspiration again, and I came up with this. In all honesty, it's not my best work. I got a little lazy when it came to retelling Esther- in case you couldn't tell- but this was a chapter dedicated to bashing Conde and rebuilding Frary so enjoy the 16th century fluff. I certainly enjoyed experimenting with the innocent side of Mary and Francis' internal struggle to keep cool- though I can't say I wrote it best. I produced what I did as well as I could at this moment.

Thank you for all the follows and favorites. It really makes me gush and encourages me. I fell behind with writing individual thank yous, but please know that I appreciate each and every follow and favorite.

As for the next chapter, we'll see if it is a possibility. I don't want to keep leading readers on if I can't come up with good content. I'd rather come up with good content rather than just put something out there. For now, though, let's just say I subconsciously ended the chapter on this note, and I'm quite liking the way the words are written.

I don't own Reign, nor did I come up with the character portrayals in it.

Thanks again for everything! You've all been so great, and I really enjoy writing when I can - _FrenchLavenderAndHoney_


End file.
